The Fire
by theboardwalkbody
Summary: Daryl's mom died in a fire when he was young. At least that's what everyone thinks happened, but what if it was only made to look like that. (While both brothers are mentioned and Daryl has a small part, this story is focused on Daryl's mom and there are mentions of domestic abuse).


She was up before the rest of them, as she always had to be, and headed straight for the bathroom to start her morning ritual. Every morning was the same; wake up, cover the bruises her husband gave her with makeup so her young sons would not see, make her husbands breakfast, pack his lunch, and stand on the porch and watch silently with her cigarette as he drove away for work all the while wishing he would never come back.

It was raining this morning, a quick thunderstorm had rolled in just as she was waking up. She was standing on the porch watching the pickup truck back out of the dirt driveway. It was still unbearably hot, even with the rain beginning to soak through her nightgown. When the truck was finally out of sight she took a deep drag on her cigarette, headed inside, and poured herself a glass of wine. It was only six-thirty in the morning but she had long since stopped caring about when was and wasn't acceptable to start drinking. She figured that if her husband was allowed to never be sober then she was allowed to have her wine.

The house was dark, she kept all the lights off except the one in the small kitchen, and she liked it that way. It was these early mornings when she felt she could truly relax. As she walked through the living room she tripped over one of her youngest sons toys. She stumbled into the side table and knocked a photo off it and it crashed to the floor. Ignoring the broken glass she picked it up.

It was a photo of her oldest son, Merle. Only 12 years old and already he was in and out of juvenile detention facilities. She never understood him, even as an infant he would throw fits and no matter what she did to soothe him nothing worked. He never liked being at home, never liked being in school, never liked anything. He was always rough, always fighting and arguing. Merle hated everyone in the house, she figured.

She wondered often if he cared about his little brother, Daryl. Daryl adored him. He was always asking, "Mama, where's Merle at? Mama, is when's he comin' home? Is Merle gonna play with me today, Mama?" She couldn't understand why her youngest son adored his older brother so much when the only instances she'd seen them play together Merle did nothing but bully the poor kid.

Daryl wasn't without his faults, though. He may not have been as bad as Merle, but she figured he wasn't too far from being in the same boat as him. She saw the way he copied him and she knew it was only a matter of time before he got himself into trouble.

It was noon when Daryl woke up. It was Saturday and that meant it was a slim chance that Daryl would be up any sooner than he'd awoken today. She was sitting on the worn-out sofa in the living room, nursing her third glass of wine and her second pack of cigarettes, and trying to read some mystery novel when he'd walked in.

Silently Daryl walked passed her and grabbed himself a bowl of cereal and retreated back to his room to eat it. An hour later he reappeared. She had fallen asleep by then, as she was prone to do when she was drinking and smoking, and he nudged her awake.

"I'm goin' out. Gonna ride my bike with my friends." he told her.  
"It's rainin'." she replied.  
"It stopped." he said.  
"Well, alright then." and she let him go.

Daryl turned and went out of the house through the garage. She couldn't help but notice how small he looked. Sure he wasn't yet 10 years old, but he just looked so small.

She was alone in the house now, and even though she was alone she still felt like she was being watched. Still felt like she had to be cautious of the moves she made. She felt trapped in her own house.

She looked out the window, Daryl was right it had stopped raining, but she could see the storm clouds in the distance - they weren't quite through yet.

She crossed the house and went into the bedroom. Ashtrays, empty glasses, and drained bottles of beer littered the end-tables. She walked over to her side of the bed, placed her book down on the sheets and put her glass of wine on the end table. She lit a new cigarette and dropped it down on the bed. She stood and watched for a few minutes as the lit end burned through the sheets and waited until there was a decent sized flame started.

She didn't pack anything. She didn't take anything except for the money she had hidden between the mattress and the boxspring. She left the house, still in her nightgown, and hid in the neighbors bushes and watched as the flame quickly took over the corner of the house the bedroom was on. When she was sure the fire would destroy everything she walked away.

She had gotten on a train and within a couple hours she was out of Georgia. She didn't know where she was going, but she didn't care so long as she never had to go back to that house. Didn't care so long as everyone she knew thought she was dead. Didn't care so long as no one came looking for her. Only for a while did she feel bad about leaving Daryl behind. He was still young, still had a chance where he could have changed, but she didn't take him. She couldn't. She needed to be free - needed to start all over again, be someone else in a different place.  



End file.
